Nikitin lived nearly half a mile from the Shelestovs’ in a flat of eight rooms at the rent of three hundred roubles a year, which he shared with his colleague Ippolit Ippolititch, a teacher of geography and history. When Nikitin went in, this Ippolit Ippolititch, a snub-nosed, middle-aged man with a reddish beard, with a coarse, good-natured, unintellectual face like a workman’s, was sitting at the table correcting his pupils’ maps. He considered that the most important and necessary part of the study of geography was the drawing of maps, and of the study of history the learning of dates: he would sit for nights together correcting in blue pencil the maps drawn by the boys and girls he taught, or making chronological tables.

‘What a lovely day it has been!’ said Nikitin, going in to him. ‘I wonder at you—how can you sit indoors?’

Ippolit Ippolititch was not a talkative person; he either remained silent or talked of things which everybody knew already. Now what he answered was:

‘Yes, very fine weather. It’s May now; we soon shall have real summer. And summer’s a very different thing from winter. In the winter you have to heat the stoves, but in summer you can keep warm without. In summer you have your window open at night and still are warm, and in winter you are cold even with the double frames in.’

Nikitin had not sat at the table for more than one minute before he was bored.

‘Good-night!’ he said, getting up and yawning. ‘I wanted to tell you something romantic concerning myself, but you are—geography! If one talks to you of love, you will ask one at once, “What was the date of the Battle of Kalka?” Confound you, with your battles and your capes in Siberia!’

‘What are you cross about?’

‘Why, it is vexatious!’

And vexed that he had not spoken to Masha, and that he had no one to talk to of his love, he went to his study and lay down upon the sofa. It was dark and still in the study. Lying gazing into the darkness, Nikitin for some reason began thinking how in two or three years he would go to Petersburg, how Masha would see him off at the station and would cry; in Petersburg he would get a long letter from her in which she would entreat him to come home as quickly as possible. And he would write to her. … He would begin his letter like that: ‘My dear little rat!’

‘Yes, my dear little rat!’ he said, and he laughed.

He was lying in an uncomfortable position. He put his arms under his head and put his left leg over the back of the sofa. He felt more comfortable. Meanwhile a pale light was more and more perceptible at the windows, sleepy cocks crowed in the yard. Nikitin went on thinking how he would come back from Petersburg, how Masha would meet him at the station, and with a shriek of delight would fling herself on his neck; or, better still, he would cheat her and come home by stealth late at night: the cook would open the door, then he would go on tiptoe to the bedroom, undress noiselessly, and jump into bed! And she would wake up and be overjoyed.

It was beginning to get quite light. By now there were no windows, no study. On the steps of the brewery by which they had ridden that day Masha was sitting, saying something. Then she took Nikitin by the arm and went with him to the suburban garden. There he saw the oaks and the crows’ nests like hats. One of the nests rocked; out of it peeped Shebaldin, shouting loudly: ‘You have not read Lessing!’

Nikitin shuddered all over and opened his eyes. Ippolit Ippolititch was standing before the sofa, and, throwing back his head, was putting on his cravat.

‘Get up; it’s time for school,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t sleep in your clothes; it spoils your clothes. You should sleep in your bed, undressed.’